former stay-at-home milf

And now you were right there, standing between his parted knees. The grip on his jaw was firm enough to tilt his head back, Joel could feel your fingertips digging into his skin, your perfume filling his senses, and for the first time in two weeks, he had no idea what came next.

His breath turned shallow. Beneath his jeans, his body had already betrayed him with a rigid and aching erection rushing up far too fast.

Your gaze stayed locked on his, so cold, the same professional stare, a contrast to the burst of temper you just let slip and to how hot he was feeling.

“Weeks of you coming in here — always with that look on your face. The complaints. That tough guy act like you could intimidate me.”

Your fingers tightened around his jaw, forcing his teeth to clench.

Joel knit his brow, pride started flaring in his chest like a streak of heat. He glared back and he was already trying to bite out a response.

“You keep your mouth shut now” you cut in, shutting him down before he can even part his lips. “I didn't ask you a question.”

Joel was truly confused of what was happening but at the same time, a tremor ran straight down his spine, a visceral knot tightening in his gut that made his hips shift forward, not much, just a little. It was a twisted sensation, the shame of being talked down like this — it made his heart hammer in his throat.

And your look, it was making him feel stripped down before a single piece of clothing has even come off.

You tilted his chin up just a little higher, forcing him to meet your eyes.

“You think it isn't written all over you?” you murmured. “The way you look at me.”

Joel froze under your touch. Heat flooded his neck as a suffocating wave of embarrassment taking over.

“I see it every single time you sit in that chair,” you continued.

Worst thing? Your thumb was now caressing his cheek and Joel was totally feeling dizzy. “I see where your eyes land. On my legs. On my lips. On my chest — I am certainly not stupid.”

That stings enough to break his trance. His jaw twitched against your hand, a part of his brain desperately wanted to salvage the last remaining part of his dignity.

“That’s not— I’m not—" he managed to rasp out, his voice rough, trying to sound dismissive even as his breath stuttered.

“Don't insult my intelligence” you let out a small laugh, "I'm not judging. You're not the only one that fantasize about their therapist." you said almost gently. And for a moment, Joel could see in your eyes that you wanted to…help him?

He couldn’t pull away, didn't even want to. Because to be honest, he expected you to really help your patient. So when you released your grip on his jaw, pulling your hand back, Joel was anticipating what was about to happen.

“Since you can’t seem to listen” you said with a smooth voice “we’ll try something else.”

Yes, maybe something else would work. Joel's mind was becoming shameless, totally driven by how hard he was at that moment.

You turned away from him, stepping across the wide office. He didn't expect you to go away, but his gaze kept tracking your every movement. A surreal haze lingers in his brain—he can’t even comprehend why he’s sitting there in total silence, why he just allowed you to talked to him like that.

On the far side of the room sits a second armchair, positioned directly in front of an object draped beneath a dark cloth. You stopped right beside it, turning around to face him.

“Get over here,” you ordered.

Joel’s brow furrowed. “Why should I?” he murmured. “What are we doing?”

“Fixing your problems,” you replied totally calm. “Isn’t that what you came here for?”

Joel swallowed hard, his heart still doing embarrassing things in his chest. Jesus, when was the last time he even touched a woman? For a second, his feet refused to move, but your look pulled him forward anyway. He pushed himself out of the sofa and started walking toward you.

You uncover the full length mirror, sliding the dark fabric cover off. A mirror? This office is unsettling, Joel was right. It was weird.

"Sit down" you said.

Joel blinked, staring at the sudden reflection in confusion and sat on the armchair. The sight of it feels wrong, out of place in a session. He was silently questioning what the hell was happening.

Without a word, you placed a dark chair directly beside the mirror, facing him. You sit down with complete and unbothered composure, crossing one leg over the other.

“You know, Joel, desire is the mirror of the soul." you murmured softly, looking at him.

Joel flinched at the statement and instantly snapped his gaze away, staring fixedly at the floor between his boots, his jaw working as he refused to look at you.

“Look at me,” you ordered calmly.

He hesitated and a ripple of resistance passed over his face, but he forced his face up. He hoped your "help" would be let him fuck you on the sofa. He shifted in his seat and started to mutter under his breath.

“I don’t... I don’t get what the fuck any of this has to do with therapy,” he grumbled.

You slowly reach for the top button of your blouse and to his surprise you started to unbutton your blouse. One, two, three buttons.

Joel’s complaints died on his tongue. His eyes were wide in absolute shock, but he couldn't turn away. Just like that, so fast, the heat on his groin came back, pressing inside his denim. You parted the fabric just enough, revealing the lace of your bra against your skin. Your expression seemed like you were enjoying how hard he was looking at you, how his eyes were eating you.

“I know what you’ve been fantasizing about” you stated softly.

Joel swallowed hard, trying to pull himself out of the trance. He wished you just stop pointing how much you knew what was going on his mind all these weeks.

“You don’t know shit,” he rasped, his heart was pounding.

You slowly scanned him from head to toe, taking in his tense shoulders, his rapid breathing, and the obvious bulge straining against his denim. A faint, almost pitying smile touched your lips.

“You’re really not as difficult to read as you think you are, Joel.” you said calmly.

You adjusted your posture in the chair, shifting slightly so he'd get the view of your chest and the curve of your neck.

Again, why were you talking to him like that? It was strange, and it made him feel small how easily you could make him uncomfortable. Like that one time you asked him if it was important for him having your approval.

“Fuck you.” he muttered shocking himself a little and did this glaring up at you, desperate to regain some shred of control. You were clearly making fun of him, so maybe you deserved it.

You don't even blink at the insult. You just hold his gaze, completely unbothered, and ask the question with terrifying directness:

“Do you want to touch me?”

The words hung in the air. He snapped his jaw shut and his was chest heaving, utterly trapped between his intense arousal and the sheer shame of being called out so bluntly.

“Answer me” you demanded. “Don't lie”

“Yes,” he rasped, staring at you with eyes filled both by lust and embarrassment.

You pointed at the glass beside you. “Look at the mirror. Say it to yourself, not to me.”

Joel blinked, completely caught off guard. “What the hell are you talking about?” he muttered shaking his head. You didn't budge.

Resigned, Joel slowly moved his eyes to the mirror. He saw his own ashamed face, his disheveled hair, and the way his chest was and falling too fast.

“Say the whole sentence,” you added.

His jaw tightened immediately. “I can’t,” he growled, turning his face away from his reflection. “I’m not doing that.”

"Loser." you muttered simply, looking at him.

Joel's eyes widened. Beneath his jeans, his erection throbbed painfully hard. The humiliation was making his pulse race out of control. His thoughts were shattering completely.

“Say it,” you said again.

Joel gritted his teeth and very slowly, with agonizing reluctance, he forces his eyes back to his reflection in the mirror.

“I... I want to fuck my psychiatrist,” he muttered, the words felt bitter, it was so degrading say it in front of a mirror — like for the first time he really admitted it to himself, saying it in his own mind didn't feel exposing like this at all.

You tilted your head slightly, acknowledging the confession. “Good” you say softly, the praise was laced with a condescending chill. “Now unbutton your pants.”

What the fuck. He was in the middle of a race of thoughts. Do it, Joel. Let her take care of what she created.

Don't do it, Joel. She is about to ask something crazy. What is he doing like this in front of a mirror saying this stuff anyway? But he was so achingly hard, and he was totally confused by how all of this was thrilling — all of this while he was forcing himself so much to not look at your open blouse.

You looked down at him, letting a heavy silence fill the room before you sighed, clicking your tongue in disgust.

“You are truly disappointing as a man, Joel.”

“Since when do therapists say shit like ‘disappointing’ to their clients?” he snapped back, his voice cracking slightly under the strain of his bruised ego.

You looked at him unbothered. “Since Joel Miller stopped knowing how to fucking listen.”

Joel couldn't comprehend why this was turning him on so much. It was entirely alien to him, a bizarre, twisted breach of sanity, yet his body refused to listen to reason. Driven by the overwhelming pulse of his arousal, his hands finally obeyed. His fingers fumbled with the leather belt, unbuckling it with a sharp clink before he undid the top button of his jeans and slowly pulled the zipper down.

It already felt better, not feeling his length press so much against the denim, so much that he had to choke a sound.

"Please, go on." your murmur was velvety, and even if he wasn't looking at you he felt you were probably smiling.

Under your stare, he reached inside his underwear and freed his length, letting his rigid, throbbing erection spring forward into the cool air of the office.

Your eyes dropped to his lap, taking in every twitching inch of him. A soft laugh escaped your lips, which felt almost mocking.

“You really do want to fuck your psychiatrist, don’t you?” you murmured, gesturing toward the stark reality of his state.

It was utterly absurd.

“Don’t be shy now, Joel.” you said, your voice was spilling honey now. Joel knew you liked what you were seeing, and he wondered if your body was feeling exactly what he felt. “I want to see how much you want to fuck your psychiatrist. Look at the mirror.”

Joel let out a harsh breath, his chest heaving as he stared at his own reflection in the glass. He really was there, with his cock out in his therapist office in front of a mirror. He looked like a mess by how many emotions he felt in the last fifteen minutes.

“Take it” you commanded softly. “Wrap your hand around it and start moving slowly.”

Joel hesitated, his palm hovering inches away — his eyes flicked back up to your face, searching for a sign of hesitation, a break in your composure, anything.

“No,” you cut in immediately. “Look at the glass. You need to see what’s actually happening inside that head of yours.”

Joel swallowed hard, his eyes locked onto his own reflection — his hand finally closed around his own length. He squeezed, his fingers tightening over his slick head, and drew his hand down in one slow, tentative stroke. A sharp gasp tore from his throat. The sensation was instant and overwhelming, a wave of electric anticipated pleasure shooting straight down to his core. It was surreal, almost dizzying. His mind reeled from the absurdity of it all: there he was, sitting in a sterile therapy office, stroking himself under the watchful eyes of his psychiatrist.

You tilted your head slightly, watching the slow pace of his hand as he stroked himself.

“What did I tell you after our very first session, Joel?” you asked with a tone that felt as if you were merely reviewing notes from a chart.

Joel’s stroke hitched for a second. He gripped his length tighter, his breath coming in ragged bursts as he tried to find his voice over the surging pleasure.

“To—to lose control” he rasped, his jaw clenching as he kept his eyes pinned to his own flushed face in the mirror.

“Exactly,” you replied. “But it doesn't look to me like you followed instructions at all.”

His hand kept moving, the wet friction sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet office. His chest heaved, a desperate, choked sound escaping the back of his throat.

“I did,” he choked out. “I—fucking did.”

“No, you didn't,” you countered calmly, taking in the strain in his shoulders and rise and fall of his chest. “What were you thinking about when you touched yourself at home, Joel?”

It felt like you threw a bucket of ice cold water on him. Shame — an absurd reaction, given that he was literally sitting in your office, panting and masturbating right in front of you. But there was something about letting his filthy thoughts brought into the light made him freeze up entirely.

His hand slowed against his will around his length, his face burning hot as he stared at his reflection, utterly mortified to confess what he did when he was alone.

“Keep moving.” you commanded. “What did you imagine doing to me on that couch?”

Joel’s hand twitched, restarting the slow stroke against his throbbing skin. His face burned with a feverish blush as he stared into his own dark eyes in the mirror. He swallowed hard, trying to fight back the humiliation, but under the weight of your expectant silence, the words finally spilled out — rough, broken, lustful.

“I... I imagined pinning you down,” he rasped, his voice dropping into a strained growl as his fingers tightened around himself. “Taking your wrists and holding them over your head against the leather until you couldn't move.”

His breathing turned harsh now that he put the words out there — out loud — the rhythmic glide of his hand picking up speed as the vivid memory of those late night fantasies took over his body.

“I thought about ripping your blouse open.” he continued, his chest heaving. Seemed like the restraint was falling off. His pride too, apparently.“Ripping it until the buttons popped off. Spreading your legs apart with my knees and shoving myself inside you. Just... driving into you hard, over and over, until you were screaming under me, until you were begging me to stop because it was too good — until I made you stop looking at me like that.”

You gently bit your lower lip absorbing his confession. "Is that all? Keep going."

The subtle gesture made him move his eyes right to your mouth, but your expression remained cool, you seemed entirely unawed by the violent nature of his fantasy.

Joel let out a shaky breath. The sting of your dismissive reaction, combined with the intense friction of his own palm, sends another surge of heat straight to his brain. He stared back into the mirror, his pupils blown wide, watching his hand blur against his slick and throbbing shaft as he started spilling the rest.

“I imagined taking you right on your desk, shoving all your files and papers onto the floor... bending you over the wood by your hair and lifting your skirt. I wanted to ram into you from behind, watching your face press against the desk while I held you down by your waist.”

"You can go faster." you murmured softly. "That's all?" you encouraged.

His hand pumped faster, a wet sound filling the office. His heart was hammering inside of him, and the pleasure was getting even stronger now that he could go faster.

“Every — inch of this fucking room,” he choked out, his hips twitching slightly in the armchair as he watched himself stroke faster and faster. “Against the door, on the floor — I pictured having my hands around — your neck, making you look at me while I fucked you until you couldn't even speak.”

He groaned loudly, the explicit words tumbling out like a confession under torture of pleasure. He wasn't even feeling ashamed anymore, every word coming out from his mouth, every stroke of his hand around his cock were making his brain mush. Something about the dirtiness of it — looking at himself while doing it, knowing that you were looking at him.

You watched his desperate pace, and you really couldn't give a damn about how violent his thoughts about you got.

“And yet…” you said softly. “here you are. Sitting in front of a mirror, jerking off like a loser.” you smiled a little.

Joel flinched as if you slapped him. The degrading weight of your words was cutting straight through the haze of his pleasure. His hand froze mid stroke, pinned right at the base of his rigid length, and his head snaps toward you, his eyes full of shock.

“What’s wrong?” you asked. “I didn't tell you to stop. You were doing so well.”

Joel’s lungs burned as he tries to process it all — he just knew that stopping now, the thought of ending it now sounded like pure agony in his head.

With a harsh breath, he dragged his eyes back to his reflection and resumed the motion.

Like a loser. He really was jerking off like a loser. Maybe he should just get up and do to you what he was talking about just minutes ago. And you were smiling saying those words, listening to him. Joel has never ever thought this much while touching himself. What the hell.

His fingers slid up over his wet tip, a low growl of frustration escaping his throat. “You’re — you’re enjoying this,” he rasped. “You’re — fucking insane.”

Needy strokes were filling his body with pleasure, looking at his hands doing that to himself.

“Maybe,” you replied smoothly, leaning in your chair closer to him, letting the dark lace of your bra catch his eye in the glass. “Or maybe I’m just showing you who you really are, Joel. You built this big, dangerous fantasy in your head to feel powerful... but look at you now. You can’t even stop stroking your cock when I degrade you.”

Joel groaned, he squeezed his eyes shut for a second, but your voice immediately cuts in —“Eyes on the glass, Joel”— and he snapped them open, forced to watch his own hand pump faster and faster as your words sank into his skin, pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

“You like being told what to do, don’t you?” you murmured, your tone was poisonously sweet. “All that anger, all those bitter words and all it took was one order to get you touching yourself for me.”

“Shut up —” Joel gasped, though there was no real bite left in his voice. He was stroking himself wildly now, his hips making small, desperate jerks off the cushion of the armchair.

In the mirror, he watched his hand move in a wet blur against his throbbing shaft. He looked completely wrecked — his face almost flushed, his mouth hanging open in shallow, panting gasps. He felt like this image would burn itself permanently into his memory.

“I want you to remember this face when you think about me.” you whispered.

Joel’s eyes locked onto his reflection. His pulse thundered in his throat. He felt the intense, hot tension coiling at the base of his spine, his cock pulsing for release.

“I’m... I’m going to—” he choked out, his voice cracking under the strain as his hand pumped furiously.

“Then do it, let your psychiatrist see how you come for her.” you commanded. “Look at the mirror.”

His back arched a little off the armchair as he groaned, while the first hot wave spilled over his fingers. He didn't break eye contact with the glass, feeling forced to watch every euphoric second of his climax as he came again and again, his hand shaking violently around his shaft.

When the last spasm finally ebbed away, Joel slumped into the cushion. He was panting like a winded dog, his chest heaving, his slick hand resting limply over his mess.

You slowly reached up and buttoned your blouse back to the throat, smoothing down the fabric.

You stood up, walked over to your desk, and picked up a box of tissues—the heavy, rectangular box designed for weeping clients. Walking back toward him, you held it out, your face completely blank.

Joel stared at the box, his face burning with a hot wave of embarrassment — without a word he pulled a handful of tissues and began cleaning his hand and his lap, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes looking anywhere but you. His hands trembled slightly as the raw humiliation of what had just happened settled heavily in his gut. He hastily pulled his pants back up, buckling his belt with awkward, hurried movements.

Once he was finished, you stepped closer and sat casually on the plush armrest of his armchair, leaning over him.

You reached out, sliding your hand beneath his chin, your fingers gripping his jaw to lift his head until his eyes were forced to meet yours.

“You did good.” you murmured while smiling softly. “You listened.”

Joel wasn't sure why, but hearing you finally say something positive to him made him feel less self conscious about whatever happened just minutes before. Of course, it's been weeks now, and he only received cold stares and clinical questions, so the sudden softness made him admit something.

"I thought...you would hate me." he murmured, "because of what I just said about you."

"Why would I?" you murmured, your fingers still holding his chin up. "Is it important for you to hear that I don't?"

Joel wasn't sure what to say, because in your eyes he could see that this was something you would annotate down later.

"I don't know. I'm not sure." he said, trying to escape from your gaze.

"It's human nature." you murmured again, talking about his twisted fantasies about you.

Joel didn't say anything, the sound of your desk clock indicated that the session was over.

"Alright, I have something you need to do for next time." you said, getting up and finally removing your hand from his face.

Joel listened to you, slowly pushing himself up from the armchair and reaching for his coat.

“You can touch yourself when you think about me.” you said.

The explicit permission hung in the air for a moment. To Joel, it felt surreal, a fever dream he couldn't quite wake up from. But before he could even process the words, your voice cut in again.

“But you can’t finish,” you added, walking back toward your desk and opening your notebook to jot down a few notes.

“What?” Joel blinked, staring at you in absolute disbelief. How would she even know if I do?

You turned back to face him, raising a single eyebrow. “Is it not clear, Joel? You don’t cum.”

His throat went dry. The dirtiness of your words coming from a woman so composed like you felt borderline wrong — almost unnatural in the quiet authority of your voice, making his head spin.

“How would you know?” he asked, the question slipping out with genuine sincerity.

“It’s always obvious when you lie.” you offered a faint smile. “See you next week.”

And as always, the sound of your heels echoed across the office as you walked to the door, pulling it open to dismiss him.

Joel looked at you one last time and muttered a response back. He walked past you into the hallway and unconsciously, he didn't even say goodbye to your receptionist, completely oblivious to his surroundings because his mind was just deep in worry that someone out there might have heard what you two did.

When he left the building he took the biggest breath of his whole life as if he had been holding his breath for the entire hour.

He paused on the sidewalk, he realized his hands were still trembling slightly, the heat in his veins refusing to settle. Did he really just jerk off in front of you like that?

It was a total pinch me moment. Weird enough, you both looked like you enjoyed it, yet you still managed to turn it into a clinical exam.

“Don't finish.”

A frustrated laugh escaped his lips because he knew right then that the next seven days were going to be agony.

Over the following days, Joel’s life returned to its usual routine…or at least the illusion of it. Everything felt unchanged on the surface, except he kept replaying what happened.

Honestly, he couldn't stop fantasizing about you. If anything, the mental images had grown far worse. The fantasy he built in his head was completely shattered the moment he stepped out of your office, but it couldn't stop him from thinking the most dirty things his subconscious could create. Perhaps it was because he was so close, yet never actually got to touch you. The memory of your skin beneath your unbuttoned blouse, the glimpse of dark lace clinging flawlessly to your curves. It was fuel to an already burning fire.

Much to his own surprise... he actually listened.

He wasn't entirely sure why he was obeying you, but he just did. Somewhere deep down, it felt like the right choice, and the quiet knowledge in the back of his mind that you would approve of his obedience made the ache feel a hundred times sweeter.

Still, as the days wore on, the physical frustration spiraled into absolute torment. Edging himself late at night, letting his hand slide over his skin while pictured your body — only to force himself to stop right at the edge of his orgasm — was like living through hell on earth. Never in his life he felt something like this.

The day before your next appointment, something had actually changed from the last one.

After work, Tommy leaned against the bumper, holding a clip-board in one hand, casually running through the schedule.

“So, Jones called about the drywall for the West Wing…” Tommy said, tossing a thumb toward the building behind them. “Says his crew can’t start until Thursday. Some bullshit about another job going over schedule.”

Joel raised his head, looking at him. “Tell him Thursday is too late. The plumber’s coming Friday morning. If the drywalls aren't up, the whole timeline gets pushed back a week.”

“I told him that…” Tommy shrugged, walaking around to toss the clip-board onto the truck bed next to Joel. “He didn't care. Said we’re just gonna have to deal with it.”

“He said what?” Joel bit out. “Give me his damn number. I always have to deal with fuck—”

...jerking off like a loser.

Tommy raised one eyebrow, not understanding why Joel cut himself mid sentence. "It's just a two days delay." he murmured, looking at him.

Joel felt his head spinning at the fact that he really thought about that — and scarily enough, it stopped his anger too, at least on the outside.

It clicked: losing control just meant he was handing it to you.

Tommy told him to try therapy. "People can't stand you anymore, with that attitude of yours," he'd said, annoyed because of something Joel had said, he said it like it wasn't the first time he had to mutter that line — and predictably, it ended in another fight, doors slammed, silence for a week after. Yes, even during work.

Joel knew it, deep down. He was insufferable in ways he couldn't always name…sharp tongued, quick to cut, the kind of company people tolerated rather than sought out. It wasn't that he'd lost his friends, a handful still called, still showed up. But Tommy had made it clear, more than once, that he was running out of patience for the version of Joel that had been hardening for years. Something was changing for thr worst, slowly, without an obvious cause, or at least that's what he thought — the edges of him just kept sharpening instead of softening, and people always told him you become wiser, softer with age, not meaner.

The divorce didn't help. It had left him adrift in a sea of things he never talked about, treading water without knowing which direction led anywhere.

So one afternoon, walking the dog — the leash slack in his hand, the dog sniffing at something in the grass in no hurry — he passed a gold plaque with your name engraved on it, and something in him, tired of arguing with itself, just gave in. He did it lazily, detached, like someone forced him to. He typed your name into his phone, saved the contact before he could think better of it, found the studio's number online.

A man's voice picked up, in a brisk, professional tone he said, "How can I help?"

"Uh — can I get an appointment with the doctor?"

"Is this your first time seeing her?"

"Yes."

"One moment."

He heard the click of a mouse, and then: "I have a slot free tomorrow at four, actually. Does that work?"

"Sure. Last name's Miller," he added, already regretting his decision.

"Perfect. See you tomorrow."

The line went dead and just like that Joel stood there feeling like he'd done something monumentally stupid, something so pointless he nearly called back to cancel before he'd even hung up properly.

Annoyed with himself, he showed up the next day anyway. He pushed through the door of the practice and stopped just inside, thrown by how dark it was, darker thanhe expected. The walls bled from charcoal into burgundy into black, it was…definitely moody. Wasn't a therapy office supposed to put you at ease? This one just made the back of his neck prickle.

The receptionist, at least, was warm. Young, sharply dressed, the kind of put together that made Joel self-conscious about his own clothes, he didn't pay much attention to how he dressed. Why would he anyway?

"Miller, right?" he said, smiling.

"Yeah. That's me," Joel murmured, hands shoved in his pockets.

"Give the doctor a few minutes…her last patient just left, she's finishing up some notes. She'll be right with you."

He gestured toward a row of chairs against the far wall, and Joel sat, trying not to think too hard about why his palms had gone damp. A strange knot was tightening in his stomach — a low, nagging why the hell did I agree to this. He hadn't even told Tommy he booked the appointment. It felt absurd, honestly, a man his age paying a stranger to sit and listen to his problems like that fixed anything.

"Miller?"

The voice pulled him out of the spiral.

"She's ready for you," the receptionist said, that same easy smile back on his face.

Joel got up, crossed to the door, and pushed it open. The office wasn't any brighter than the waiting room, he found the same heavy dark, same faint chill crawling under his skin, it felt as if the building itself hadn't gotten the memo about what a therapy practice was supposed to feel like.

You looked up from the papers on your desk.

"Welcome," you said, gesturing loosely toward the sofa across from you.

Joel gave a half smile and lowered himself onto it, the cushions sinking more than he expected.

"You can lie down, if that's more comfortable for you," you added, watching him settle.

Lie down? Jesus. He'd thought that only happened in movies.

"No, I'm good like this," he said, and his eyes drifted over you without quite meaning to, taking you in before he could stop himself.

Perfectly put together, composed. You wore black, a fitted blouse tucked into a pencil skirt, sleeves buttoned at the wrist even though the room was warm enough to make Joel want to shed his own jacket. No jewelry except a thin watch, a faint sweet but sophisticated scent he could catch. Exactly the kind of person you'd expect doing exactly this job.

"Well, why don't you introduce yourself," you said, not looking up from your notepad. "Name, age, why you're here."

Your voice was even, clipped, like you'd asked the same three questions a thousand times and stopped expecting anything interesting back.

Joel let out a breath, long and irritated. This whole thing was absolutely fucking ridiculous.

"Joel Miller," he muttered. "I'm…forty six. My brother thinks I need this." He looked somewhere past your shoulder, at the wall, trying not to meet your eyes. "Says I'm 'annoying.'" He hooked two fingers in the air around the word, like it was something he could physically discard.

"Do you think this is stupid?" You finally looked up.

Out of every question he'd braced for, this wasn't one of them, and it caught him off guard enough that he actually met your eyes. Your tone didn't help, flat, almost bored, he thought that his answer wouldn't move you either way.

"No," he said slowly. "I don't think it's stupid."

"Then what is it?"

"Is this an interrogation?" he snapped suddenly, sharper than he meant to. "I thought people just…talked, here. About their problems."

You lifted an eyebrow and wrote something down without answering, the pen scratching against the paper. The sight of it, needled at something under his skin, and he couldn't have said why it made him this angry. Maybe it was the not knowing what you were writing. Maybe it was just that nobody had looked at him like that in years, this coldly. Not even his wife when they finally signed for the divorce.

"I just asked a question," you said evenly, leaning back into your armchair, unbothered, his irritation was something you already accounted for.

Fucking ridiculous. Again.

"I feel like this is bullshit," he admitted, finally, the words coming out before he could dress them up.

"Why?"

His jaw tightened. "Because I'm paying you to ask me questions like this is going to accomplish anything. Like you can just…understand me, in an hour."

"I understood enough," you said, unmoved. "You can't control your anger. That took one question."

"I can control it just fine."

You didn't answer that, just looked at him a beat too long, then went back to writing. What the hell is she even writing. He fought the urge to lean over and look.

"Tell me about your brother," you said instead. "What's your relationship like?"

It was, Joel thought, the first question that didn't feel like a trap, so he let himself answer it straight, without the edge.

"Tommy's my little brother," he said. "I think we're good. We work together, too."

You watched him say it, something unreadable passing behind your eyes.

But when he looked at you, something about it felt off. Not wrong, exactly, just off, in a way he couldn't quite name. Like you were hanging on every word he said, cataloguing it. It wasn't that you did anything strange, if anything, you were unnervingly composed, your expression barely shifting between questions. But there was something about you — how calm you were — that made him feel like he was being read rather than listened to. Fucking psychiatrists.

"Go on. I'm listening," you said, bringing a glass of water to your lips without breaking eye contact.

"We've had some pretty big fights over the years," Joel said, shifting on the sofa, "but I figure that's normal, between siblings. Like I said…he's the one who pushed for this. Says I've got shi—" he caught himself "— things to work on."

"What do you think those things are?" You tilted your head slightly, and your pen began turning slowly between your fingers, an unconscious motion that that made Joel's eyes drop to your hands before he could stop them, and he lost the thread of his own thought for a second, watching the pen roll over your knuckles.

"I don't know," he admitted, dragging his gaze back up.

"I think you do," you said, almost gently, the pen still moving.

He didn't answer right away. He was still looking at your hands, at the small, precise motion of them, and it took him a second to realize he'd been staring long enough that it might've been obvious.

"What about relationships?" you asked, breaking the silence before it stretched too far.

"I'm divorced," he said, quieter now, his eyes finally finding somewhere else to land, the floor now. "Been about a year."

"Why did you divorce?"

"She hated me. I hated her. That's all there is to it."

When Joel lifted his eyes back to your face, your expression was different, and it unsettled him — something close to judgment, maybe, though he couldn't be sure. Weren't therapists supposed to be neutral about this stuff? Maybe that was just the shape your face took at rest, and he was reading into it out of pure paranoia.

You moved, crossing one leg over the other, and his eyes dropped there for a second too long before some distant, more rational part of his brain flagged it — wrong, don't, look away — and he dragged his gaze back up before you could've possibly noticed.

You said nothing. The silence stretched, you didn't try to fill it with a question again after he purposefully cut your question about his divorce.

"Is there…another question, or what?" he muttered, and hated how uncertain it came out, like he was being evaluated and failing.

"There's a lot of questions, always" you said, and something in your tone made him wish he hadn't asked.

Joel moved his weight again again, the leather of the sofa creaking under him, and looked at you.

"You're not going to tell me anything, are you." he said.

"Tell you what?"

"Whatever you're writing. What you're — " he gestured vaguely at the notepad, at you. "Concluding, or whatever it is you people do."

"You want to know what I think of you?"

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." You set the pen down, finally, and folded your hands instead, watching him with the same maddening stillness. "Is that important to you? What I think?"

"No," he said, too quickly, again. His fucking mouth apparently decided to stop consulting him.

"Okay," you said simply, didn't even try to challenge him on that, which for some reason felt worse than if you'd called him out on it.

He looked away first. Toward the window, the dark wall, he slowly got every detail of your office trying to look away from your face. The silence in the room was something he wasn't used to. Not the comfortable kind, like when you are at home alone or when you're just quiet with someone you trust, but something denser, it was waiting for him to fill it.

"This is the part where I'm supposed to keep talking, right," he muttered eventually. "Fill the silence."

"Only if you want to. You don't have to talk if you don't want to" you murmured, gentler than any of the sentences you have said until that moment.

"I don't." he admitted

"Then we can sit here, in silence."

And you did, you just sat there, perfectly at ease with it, while Joel found, to his own irritation, that he couldn't.

Joel's eyes drifted around the room again, now the shelf of books about psychology and neurosciences and the discomfort of it finally tipped over into something he couldn't sit with anymore.

"I think I'm gonna go," he said, already shifting his weight forward like he meant to stand.

"You've still got half an hour left," you said, not moving, not even looking up from your hands. "You sure you want to pay for the full hour and waste it like that?"

Joel looked at you. Something about the way you said it, to you his discomfort was mildly entertaining rather than something you felt any need to fix. This made him feel strange, exposed, irritated.

"I can't really talk if you're just…sitting there, saying nothing," he admitted, a little embarrassed, dragging a hand through his hair. Reluctant.

"Well," you said, tilting your head slightly, "earlier you told me this felt like an interrogation." you murmured in a quiet tease.

"That's different."

"Is it?"

Joel exhaled, sitting back down against his own better judgment. This was starting to get exhausting.

"You want me to ask you more questions, then?" you said, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

Joel nodded, not trusting himself to say it out loud.

"Fine." You picked the pen back up. "What do you do for work?"

"Construction. I run my own crew."

"How long?"

"Twelve years, maybe more."

"You like it?"

Joel shrugged. "It's fine."

"Do you have friends outside of your brother?"

"Some."

"Some? A close circle?" you murmured.

"Yeah. Some," he said again, jaw tightening slightly.

"When was the last time you cried?" you said suddenly, the question shocking him.

Joel blinked. "I don't know."

"Probably a long time ago, then."

"Who cares?"

"You should." you said, and let the pen rest against your bottom lip for a second, watching him not answer. "Are you seeing anyone?"

"No."

"Do you want to be?"

"Don't know, I don't care bout going on dates."

He was sure he caught amusement in your eyes while you started writing down something, again.

But then, the last ten minutes of the appointment, something morphed. Joel couldn't place exactly when, maybe when you leaned forward slightly to set the pen down, maybe when you recrossed your legs and he caught himself watching the movement a beat too long before forcing his eyes elsewhere.

"Do you like being looked at?" you asked, and the question was, well, weird.

"What?"

"When people look at you. Does it bother you? Do you like it?" Your tone hadn't changed, not really, but something underneath it had, it felt to him like the words were doing double duty, meaning one thing on the surface and something else just beneath it.

"I don't know," Joel said, and it came out rougher than he meant it to. "Depends who's looking, I guess."

"And right now?"

He didn't answer that one right away. His eyes had drifted, without his permission, to the line of your collarbone, the way your blouse sat against it, and he yanked his gaze back up so fast it almost gave him whiplash. Don't. Don't do that. She's your fucking therapist. The thought arrived too late, useless, already outpaced by whatever part of his brain had been looking in the first place.

"Right now I'm just trying to answer your question," he said, trying to escape whatever trap you were getting him into.

You almost smiled at his attempt, drinking your water one more time.

"Do you find it easy to be honest," you asked next, "or do you perform, mostly?" your eyes scanned him now, he was sure, his face, his chest, his jeans. It was borderline uncomfortable not knowing if you were judging him or just looking.

"Perform for who?"

"Whoever's watching." you said softly.

Joel felt something tighten low in his stomach that had nothing to do with anger, and he hated it instantly, hated that he couldn't tell if the question was about his brother, his ex-wife, or the two of you, sitting so close in a room that suddenly felt smaller than it had an hour ago.

"I don't know," he said again, getting irritated at his won short answers.

"These questions don't even make sense," Joel said finally, an edge creeping back into his voice, defensively. "Nobody could answer that. 'Do I perform.' What kind of — "

"Somebody could," you said simply, unbothered by the pushback, shifting slightly in your chair, just enough that the fabric of your blouse pulled taut for a second, just enough that his eyes dropped there before he could stop them. "You're just not used to being asked."

"That's not — " He lost the thread of his own sentence, eyes snapping back up, jaw tight, annoyed at himself more than at you.

"Not what?"

"Nothing."

You didn't respond for a moment, tilting your head, studying him again. But your eyes now met his. "You get uncomfortable when you don't have the answer ready. Have you noticed that?"

"I get uncomfortable because you keep asking things that don't have answers." he muttered irritated.

"Everything has an answer. Some people just don't like theirs."

You crossed your legs again, and Joel felt his own eyes start to drift there before he physically dragged it back up, furious at himself, at the room, at whatever was wrong with him in the last ten minutes that wasn't wrong an hour ago.

"Fine," he said, rougher than he meant to. "Ask me something with an answer, then."

"Okay." You leaned back, watching him with that same maddening patience. "When you looked at me a minute ago. What were you thinking?"

The question landed flat in his chest, and for one long, stupid second he actually considered answering it honestly, as if it would break whatever unsettling and feverish atmosphere started to fill the room, before some last working part of his brain slammed the door on it.

"Nothing," he said.

"Sure," you murmured. The clock on your desk clicked past the hour, and you set your notepad down.

"That's it for today," you said. Then, almost as an afterthought, though it clearly wasn't: "For next time — why don't you try losing control a little?"

Joel's head came up. "What?"

"You heard me." you stood up, smoothing your skirt.

"That's not… " he let out a short, disbelieving breath, "that's not even a real thing to ask someone. Lose control. How am I supposed to just — decide that?"

"You don't have to decide anything," you said, "You just have to do it."

"That's a nonsense request."

"No, it isn't." You held his gaze, but your tone, that was something else, velvety, secure, just enough to make the back of his neck go hot. "You'll know what I mean when you're there."

Joel stood too, perhaps too abruptly for what needed, "You're not gonna explain that?"

"No, I don't have to" you said simply, walking him toward the door, but when he got closer to you, still expecting for an answer you said something else. "Do you want to argue with me, Mr Miller?" you looked up at him.

He didn't answer right away. He just looked at you, jaw clenching, some inexplicable emotion running under his skin he didn't have a name for.

"No." he said finally.

"Then see you next week, have a nice weekend."

Joel walked out feeling strange, he barely managed a nod at the receptionist on his way past, the guy said something, "see you next week" or some version of it, and Joel just grunted, already halfway to the door.

Outside, the sunlight hit him like a slap, a hard white contrast to the dark he'd been sitting in for the last hour, and he stood there a second, letting his eyes adjust.

You were strange, he thought, walking now. The questions were strange too, especially the last ones. You were definitely mapping him, taking him into your own world, looking at him with eyes he couldn't quite read. And he'd been strange too, looking at you like that, more than once, he had no business looking at his own psychiatrist. You were…hot.

It had been a while since he'd done that with anyone. Actually looked or noticed a woman. He couldn't remember the last time, couldn't pin down when exactly he stopped himself letting his body feel things.

He didn't understand what the hell had happened in there, not really, and he didn't try very hard to work it out standing on the sidewalk. He just raised a hand for a cab, climbed in when one pulled over, and gave the driver his address, staring out the window the whole ride home, turning the hour over in his head without landing anywhere useful.

The days after, he forced himself to forget about it. He didn't tell Tommy he'd made an appointment, didn't mention he'd be going back. He worked like always — up early, on site by seven, barking orders at his crew — and did his usual rounds of errands, groceries, taking care of his dog, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing had really changed, if you asked him. Just this low buzz of confusion running under everything, did he really want your approval?

Then, the night before the next appointment, he took a shower, hot, trying to ease his mind. And somewhere in there, without meaning to, he thought of you. The black blouse, the way it had pulled tight for that one second. The skirt. Your hands around the pen.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered to himself, forehead against the tile, disgusted, mostly at himself. She's your therapist. What the hell is wrong with you.

He stayed under the water a while longer, willing the thought away, and when it wouldn't quite go, he shut the water off instead, toweled off too roughly, and yanked on a pair of pajama pants.

He got into bed, turned the TV on for the noise more than anything. Laying there his eyes were fixed on the screen, but his thoughts had completely untethered themselves, spiraling back to the last time he had seen you.

He couldn't stop, no matter how much he tried to force his gaze back to the screen. His mind kept fixating on the curve of your legs, the slow movement of your hands, the velvety cadence of your voice, and what you left him with: "Try to lose control."

He knew it wasn't right —it certainly wasn't normal to think like that of a session with his therapist— but there was something about it being socially forbidden, or even taboo of it that it only fueled the fire. Before he could talk himself out of it, he realized he was getting hard just picturing the heels and the smooth sheer line of your dark stockings. The tension on his cock grew so intense it became almost uncomfortable, a rigid, aching erection throbbing under his pajama pants. And Joel tried to fight the urge, to think about it some longer, but it was useless. It just kept getting worse, like he had intrusive thoughts that he couldn't get rid of.

So, he slid a hand down to the crotch of his pants and began to rub himself through the fabric, desperate to relieve the overwhelming pressure building inside him.

He stared down at his own hand moving over the soft fabric of his grey pajama pants, the motion giving him pleasure was doing little to quiet the echo of your voice repeating in his mind. Swallowing hard, he slowly tugged the waistband down, letting the his tense cock snap back against his lower abdomen with a dull thud. He was almost shocked to see he was this hard.

Joel then wrapped his fingers firmly around the base of his shaft — calloused and worked from years of manual work — feeling the searing heat and the desire fueled pulse. He began to stroke himself with drags at first, slicking his skin with pre cum already leaking from his tip, as his knuckles brushed rhythmically against his stomach, his breathing getting already heavy.

A groan escaped his throat as his fist tightened around his hard flesh. He couldn't shake the image of your legs, taut beneath the sheer nylon, and the visual of it alone was driving his fist in every frantic stroke of his palm. Joel in the middle of giving himself pleasure, left space to a spike of irritation twisted together with the arousal. It pissed him off how cold and detached you were when you spoke to him, how easily you made him feel small and exposed in that chair. How stupidly shallow your questions where, the way you looked at him like he was nothing more than a stupid man sitting on his sofa and wasting his time.

Yet that exact resentment, the sharp sting of feeling so deeply uncomfortable around you, sent a violent surge of heat straight to his groin, fueling the slippery pace of his hand. His thumb smeared the thick beads of pre-cum that leaked again over his head, spreading the slickness as he pumped himself faster. His hips jerking up off the mattress with every harsh stroke, completely consumed by the thought of breaking that professional ice and taking control.

As his grip tightened, he felt himself getting closer to his own climax and for some reason unknown to him, he actually slowed down. Even if this all started like something he had to reluctantly take care off, even if at first he didn't want to think of you in this way, he was playing with his own orgasm, to give his pleasure filled mind some more time to savor his own fantasies.

As he slowed down and the climax was getting further away, the bitter edge of his frustration morphed into another vivid fantasy. He pictured pushing you back against that polished mahogany desk in your office, Joel imagined he wasn't sitting meekly in the patient's sofa anymore; he was leaning over you, his fingers digging into your shoulders as he unbuttoned that pristine blouse with zero patience, ripping the fabric open to expose your skin to the cool air.

His pacing quickened once against, stroking on his throbbing cock in a restless rhythm. How would your breast feel? He was pulsing just thinking about it. He imagined opening your skirt's zip, now looking at your legs covered in those smooth stockings, feeling the contrast of the sheer nylon under his rough palms.

He wanted to hear that composure break, he wanted to feel like he was more than some notes, to fuck you against your own desk, the thought of taking complete control, of forcing you to lose the very restraint you so casually preached, made his pulse roar in his ears. Every hard and slick drag of his palm against his throbbing erection matched the violent feverish imagery in his head, every stroke was him driving into you, making you nothing but a series of high moans that filled your office.

A rough, breathless whisper tore from his chest right as he reached the breaking point, his voice cracking into the silence of the room.

"Fuck—" he rasped low. His hand clamped down hard over his cock as the first violent pulse hit, his hips jerking up off the mattress while his climax spilled hot across his thick fingers and bare stomach. He lay there panting, his knuckles sticky and his breathing uneven, trying to find his lucidity again after the intensity of the delayed orgasm.

The sessions after the first one had each one following the same shape but somehow getting more feverish, sometimes normal, sometimes off.

"Do you think about the fact that you keep trying to control everything often?" you'd ask, and he'd say "No," and you'd write something down anyway.

"What do you imagine when you can't sleep?"

"Nothing," he'd lie.

Some weeks it was work, his brother, nothing questions with nothing answers, and he'd leave almost relieved.

Other weeks you'd ask something weird like: "Do you like being told what to do?" and he didn't know how to answer. With every session he found himself looking at you longer than he should, every single detail about your body, about the way you crossed your leg, about your blouse hanging so perfectly over your breast. Or how you looked at him, he was sure there was something about the way you sometimes would your eyes on his arms, or his hands, his legs.

He hated how much he noticed. He hated more that noticing had started to feel like the only part of the week he looked forward to. Each session your questions kept getting weirder, unsure if you wanted to undertand him and at the same time he stopped being sure whether he was still coming here to be understood, or just to be looked at by you for an hour, and told, in that same unbothered voice, exactly what was wrong with him.

And every time, after your appointments, Joel would take care of it, of what he was fantasizing about, just like that one night; little by little, he stopped feeling guilty about it. His mind was too occupied trying to imagine how you would look naked while he was stroking his cock, or how you would moan, whimper because of him, or how you would beg for more. Sometimes, he came way too fast, and that would embarrass him for about a minute while the post orgasm reality settled in.

Every session, you'd offer him something, close enough to an advice. A suggestion on how to sit with a thought instead of running from it. A way to notice himself getting defensive before he was three words into a sentence. He took it worse some weeks than others, but he took it, filed it away even when he complained about it out loud.

Then one day, something in him just snapped, he was not in a good mood, before you'd even finished the question.

"Your questions are fucking useless. I don't need all of this." he said, cutting you off mid-sentence.

You set the pen down, studying him for a second before you spoke. "But you still come here so I can tell you how to fix your problems?"

"Yes," he said, too fast, too loud for the size of the room, irritation bleeding into every syllable. "Isn't that the whole fucking point of this?"

You stood up, and that was not something he expected since the hour was far from passed, and walked right to him. You stepped directly into the space between his spread legs, and Joel looked up to you, totally confused and strangely anticipating what was about to happen.

But then, you took his jaw firmly in your hand, you tilted his face up to force his eyes to meet yours and you leaned close, hissing, "Then why the fuck don't you listen to me?"

Joel's mind became mush, it scrambled, he wasn't sure why. His pulse was hammering with you between his legs, and as he looked into your eyes, he couldn't help but feel his pants growing tighter.

author's note: if you liked it let me know!! second part is already vivid in my mind aaaaaaa